


That You Still Loved Me

by jeahwriting



Category: Olympics RPF, Swimming RPF
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-15
Updated: 2013-01-15
Packaged: 2017-11-25 14:38:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/639903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeahwriting/pseuds/jeahwriting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael Phelps and Ryan Lochte are just really clueless.  Fic where the two of them sort of find their something more.  Set in 2010.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That You Still Loved Me

**Author's Note:**

> My family and I went to Vegas this year to celebrate the new year, and so this fic initially started as a way for me to get out my Vegas/phlochte feels (cause you know, Lochte was there too--which seriously made me so fricking excited like you don't even know--and really I can't be blamed for imaging all these situations where Michael flies up as well, cause you know, racing). But somehow, maybe cause I hadn't written anything in so long, it turned into a lot more, and now its a 12000+ fic for reasons I can't even comprehend. So yeah. Hope you enjoy. :) And feedback would seriously be greatly appreciated cause this is the longest fic have ever written and idk how it really turned out. <3
> 
> Also, title nabbed from Carla Bruni's "Quelqu'un m'a dit".

  


Vegas was really beautiful at night. That’s all Ryan could think of when he walked through the streets to the Hooters hotel at the other end of the strip. He was alone because he figured it’d be easier to avoid any attention that way. He just pulled his hoodie up over his head and gripped his souvenir drink cup. One thing Ryan found out quickly was that tourists and people easily avoided strange white men with that much alcohol in their hands. 

  


It was an easy way to sift to the crowd anyways, even if Ryan wasn’t actually planning on finishing that whole drink.

  


He found Cullen and Conor easily enough inside hooters. They were, naturally, in the middle of the crowd, cheering on the scantily dressed women as they walked up and down the stage.

  


Mike was supposed to be there. He said he’d be there. But then again he said a lot of things, and Ryan wasn’t really sure what he should believe anymore.

  


They weren’t together, not really anyways. They had a thing, and that’s really the best way Ryan could put it. Ryan wasn’t really sure what they were exactly. They fucked a lot, and once in a while, they talked absently about the future. But, for all Ryan knew, those could easily be empty words. There were a lot of things he still didn’t understand about Michael. How Michael could fuck him and then go running back to Nicole. How he could blow him and then go days, even weeks, without texting him back. How he could kiss him fucking breathless and then act like nothing had ever happened.

  


It didn’t really bother Ryan anymore. It probably should have, but, to be honest, he was used to it. That’s the arrangement they had anyways. Screw and then forget about it. Friends with Benefits to the max.

  


So when Michael walked into the club for the New Year, he was surprised. But then, Nicole walked in behind him and things made a little bit more sense. 

  


She looked awful. Ryan hated to think it because it made him sound bitter and, kind of like a jealous prick, but she did. She had on way too much make-up and a dress that barely covered any of her

  


Ryan spent that New Year at the bar getting shit-faced. It wasn’t the most fun, but watching Mike and Nicole kissing on the floor wasn’t really that much fun either. 

  


Really, either way Ryan kind of lost.

 

*

 

2010 was kind of a horrible year. Well not completely. Ryan’s swimming was off the charts and he broke records and even beat Phelps quite a few times. But personally, 2010 was kind of a horrible year.

  


Michael and Nicole had decided to bump their relationship up to a new level and that meant that Michael broke things off with Ryan. It hurt more than it should have. Ryan knew that they were just doing a ‘no strings attached’ deal, but still. It hurt like a mother.

  


Now, Michael didn’t come to his room after races to celebrate. Now, he didn’t kiss Ryan quickly in the locker rooms before they had to go out and swim. Now, he didn’t call Ryan in the middle of the night for phone sex—or even just to talk, because, believe it or not, they actually did that a lot. Call each other up at random times just to talk about shit. 

  


It was really the only domestic thing they had allowed themselves. Well, not really. They also went out in the evenings sometimes, just the two of them, and watched shitty movies together, laughing at the bad acting and trying not to make the night anything more than two friends hanging out. Ryan always tried to ignore the way their hands brushed in the popcorn bag for a moment too long. 

  


And they also often woke up to find that the other man hadn’t left the night before. And they sometimes snuggled those mornings, except they didn’t call it snuggling. Michael had mostly just said that he didn’t want to get up cause it was cold out, and the two of them basically spent hours trying to get the other to get up first. They usually ended up giving each other mutual blow jobs and going back to sleep. But those were the mornings that Ryan remembered the most, and the ones he figured he’d never really forget. 

  


But all that ended summer of 2010, and Ryan figured it was probably for the best. They didn’t really have a future together anyways.

  


*

 

Conor swung by Ryan’s place the moment he told him about Michael and Nicole and their new exclusive relationship. He hadn’t really meant to tell anyone—it had just kind of slipped out. He was just talking to Conor on the phone and mentioned that he would try the whole dating scene again and when Conor asked why, he had just said that he needed some action since he would no longer be getting any from Michael.

  


So Conor was there, in his kitchen, eating a bowl of cereal and staring at the side of his head with a look that could cut glass.

  


“So what, that’s it then? He’s bowing out?” Conor munched noisily and had his eyes fixed on Ryan.

  


“No, I mean, it’s not really like that.” Ryan bent and put dishes in his dishwasher and tried to ignore the way Conor was almost gaping at him. What was the big deal anyways? It wasn’t like Conor hadn't had this type of friends-with-benefits situation with people before. “Like we just had a no-strings-attached thing, and we both knew that it would last until it lasted and then we could quit. You know, when one of us actually found someone. And he did. So, you know, I’m happy for him.”

  


Conor snorted. “It doesn’t sound like it.”

  


Ryan rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know what you want me to say. I mean, yeah, it’s weird and like I'm not crazy about her, but you know. If he’s happy, I’m happy. He’s my friend, after all. What, you don’t want me to be happy for my friends?”

  


“No, yeah, of course. But, I want _my_ friends to be happy to. And you’re my friend. And you don’t look happy.”

  


“Could you please stop making this a bigger deal than it needs to be? I’m fine, Michael’s fine. We’re all fine.”

  


Conor frowned at Ryan and turned back to his cereal. “It’s just that you guys have been doing this for years and years. I’ve never had a deal like that going for that long. And I don’t know, it kind of seems like you love him. And that he—”

  


“What?” Ryan’s head snapped up from where he was rinsing his dishes. _What?_ “Conor, what are you talking about?”

  


“I mean, that’s kind of why I’m here, man. Like sure, you guys had this ‘friends-with-benefits’ thing going,” Conor made air quotes around those words. “and like okay, both of you always had other girls and stuff on the side—but I see the way you look at him. And I see the way he looks at you, and I don’t know. I just figured there was something more there. Like not just sex, but some actual feelings. And now he’s legit dating that Nicole chick? Fuck, I figured you might be torn up a bit.”

  


Ryan’s head spun at Conor’s words. Was Conor serious? Of course he didn’t have feelings for Michael. That was ridiculous. They were just fuck buddies. They blew each other and screwed each other and gave each other handjobs, but that was the extent of it. It wasn’t romantic or particularly tender—they just did it to get off.

  


But of course, that didn’t explain why Ryan felt so empty now that it was over. Why he felt like there was something eating at his insides and tearing him apart. Why it killed him to see Michael with anyone else—why Nicole pissed him off all the goddamn time.

  


Ryan forced out a laugh. “Dwyer, you’re fucking insane. Of course there isn’t anything between Michael and me. Other than sex, of course. And now that’s over too—so I guess there really isn’t anything between us anymore.”

  


Conor looked at him, and Ryan thought he saw something there. Was it sadness? Pity? Pain? Understanding? “Man, you know you could talk to me. We’re like brothers.”

  


“Really, Conor, there were—are—no feelings between Mike and me. This is all just a little weird for me. I mean, after 6 years, I guess it’d be weird for just about anyone.” And when Conor kept giving him that look, Ryan continued. “Seriously. For god's sake, let it go. Michael and I were friends-with-benefits and now we’re not anymore. That’s it.”

  


Conor finally nodded, putting his finished bowl in the sink. He wrapped his arms around Ryan and patted him on the back. “Okay, fine.” He pulled back and looked Ryan in the eye. “But, you have to know that I’m here for you. I still think that you feel something for him, whether you agree with me or not, and if you ever have to talk about it, I’ll be here.”

  


Ryan nodded and let Conor pull him back into the hug.

 

*

 

He couldn’t fall asleep that night. Ryan stared at the ceiling and thought about what Conor said. _I see the way you look at him. And I see the way he looks at you. It kind of seems like you love him._ That wasn't true, right? I mean, Ryan didn’t do feelings. He didn’t do love or relationships, especially not with Michael, who had been his best friend plus some perks.

  


Except that the more he thought about it, the more he realized that they hadn’t been _just_ screwing for years now. There were those few domestic moments. And when Michael rolled into him, he kissed his breath away as well. And when Ryan came, he came with Michael’s gaze locked on his face. And after, Michael fell on top of him and mouthed at his neck until they both fell asleep.

  


So, maybe Conor was a little bit right—which really was a first for him. Maybe there really was something there. It would explain why Ryan felt so darn empty without Michael and why Nicole made him so livid. And why there was a part of him that ached to have Michael back by him in his bed.

  


Ryan grabbed the pillow beside him. He put it over his face and groaned into it. Mother of Christ. Fucking hell, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

  


Ryan moved the pillow away and saw clearly for the first time in months. Of course. That’s why all this bothered Ryan. That’s why he’s been left feeling confused and lonely and lost ever since Michael broke off whatever the heck they were. That’s why nothing seemed to fit those days and that’s why he’d been tearing himself to pieces trying to figure it out.

  


Lochte lay in his bed alone that June night at 3 a.m. and realized that, maybe, he was a little bit in love with Michael Phelps.

 

*

 

The next time he saw Michael was a little weird. Probably not for Michael, but for Ryan. 

  


“Hey, Doggy!”

  


Ryan heard Michael before he saw him and the next thing he knew, long arms were wrapping around him from behind. The musky scent of Michael’s cologne washed over him and Ryan felt Mike’s beard tickle his cheek. It was so familiar, yet so foreign, and Ryan had to take a moment to ease the twisting in his stomach before turning around.

  


“MP, it’s been a while, huh?” 

  


“Jeah, buddy, not my fault.” He leaned forward on the bar and ordered a beer. “You keep canceling on me bro! I keep calling and texting and you never respond. If I didn’t know any better, it seems like you’re ignoring me.”

  


Ryan bit his lip. Yeah, so ever since he realized that he might have some actual feelings toward Michael, he had kind of been avoiding him. Not really on purpose, he just didn’t know what to say to him anymore. Or how to act. He just saw him and Nicole and felt all these feelings that he didn’t know how to handle—so really it was just a whole lot easier to avoid the whole thing in the first place. It was a lot easier on his heart anyways.

  


“Sorry, dude,” Ryan looked up and Michael was watching him carefully, eyebrows raised. “Just been busy the past few weeks, training and all. Gregg’s got me on this new crazy regimen and I don’t know, I guess I just haven’t really had that much time for that much else.”

  


Michael frowned. Ryan wasn’t sure if he bought it or not. Whatever they had been relationship-wise, they were best friends first, and Michael could read him like an open book. “Well, make some time for me, dude. Last time we hung out, it was what, June? July? It’s like October now. I’m busy too, man, I get that—but I need me some Reezy lovin’.” He grinned and Ryan saw teeth and squinty eyes. 

  


The butterflies were back. Ryan suddenly felt queasy. Fuck this, Michael didn’t know what it was like—wanting someone from afar. And it wasn’t like it was just a crush. Ryan could deal with crushes. This was so much more. It wasn’t like they had never had sex or made out or anything—they used to do both on a regular basis. And now it was over and Ryan felt like he was going to be sick cause he knew it would never happen again.

  


Ryan swallowed and looked away. “Excuse me.”

  


He ignored the way Michael almost gaped at him as he stalked away. He looked around the club for the one person he knew he could talk to.

  


Conor gave a startled yelp when Ryan walked over and yanked him from his table.

  


“Hey! Reezy, you jerk, way to cockblock me.” He glared at Ryan and rubbed at his shoulder. “You totally owe me if I don’t get laid tonight.”

  


Lochte didn’t respond. He just looked away and then down at the bar, because suddenly his eyes were filled to the brim with tears. Fucking hell, when did he become such a girl.

  


Conor noticed right away. “Oh, shit, man, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—what happened? What’s wrong?” Conor hooked his finger under Ryan’s chin and lifted it so that Ryan faced brown eyes. He threw his arm around Ryan and watched him carefully, wiping a tear with his thumb. “Fuck. What did he do? I saw him go over to you—and I would’ve been there but I was a little—anyways. What did he say?”

  


“Nothing, nothing.” Ryan pulled back from Conor’s grip—because wow way to call attention to the fact that he was crying—and sniffed loudly. “He didn’t say anything. It just—you were right. You know, about the whole feelings thing.”

  


“Oh, well. It took you long enough to figure it out, Ry.”

  


“No. I mean, I thought about it right after you left that day, and I guess I figured it out then—but shit. This is all your fault, man.” Ryan shoved Conor back all the way and pointed at him. “I was fine before, you know. I mean, it was a little awkward with Mike and all, but I was fine. And then you came flying in with all that stuff about being in love and now—everything just sucks.”

  


Conor put his palms out, trying to steady Ryan. “Woah, Ryan, I’m sorry dude.” And he really did look sorry. “I thought you knew. Seriously. It’s not just me that thought all that stuff with you and Michael, you know. Everyone thought you were together together—just like in secret or whatever. You guys certainly seemed that way, with all the looks and the weird touching and the way you guys could literally not stop talking about each other ever.” Conor patted him on the shoulder. “Seriously, after I left, Cullen called and asked if maybe he should stop by too. And Allison. And Kyle. Practically all our friends. I told them no, just cause you seemed to be in your head a lot and I figured you wouldn’t really want all that company. But yeah, dude. Everyone knew. Except you—and I guess Michael too.”

  


Ryan stayed quiet at that. He really didn’t know what to say, so he just sat on the bar stool and stared at Michael from across the room.

 

* * *

 

There were a lot of things Michael had planned for 2010. He was going to dominate during the Pan-pacs and be better than he had ever been before. Screw Beijing, Beijing was just a starting point—he was going to show the world that he really was the greatest Olympian and swimmer of all damn time. Screw Ian, screw Tyler Clary, screw Lochte—

  


Actually, speaking of which—no.

  


He also wanted to find a girl and be in a real relationship. He wanted someone who would understand what its like to swim and be in competitions all the time. Who would get that he couldn’t commit 110% because training took up so much time. Who would understand the pains of swimming and the effort it took out of him. Who would understand that swimming was his entire life and he wasn’t easily going to give that up for anything less.

  


But he also wanted someone who he could talk to. Who would listen and get where he’s coming from. That he’s not some narcissistic jerk the media makes him out to be—that under all that confidence, there was someone real. Someone with insecurities—well not insecurities, just not so strong points. Who would be there when he needed someone and who would make him feel comfortable—loved even.

  


Yeah, it was a tall order. But Michael figured he would be able to find someone like that if he, you know, believed and stuff.

  


Nicole Johnson may or not be that girl. Michael didn’t really know yet. But she was hot, and sweet. So Michael figured that he might as well give it a go. I mean, what was the worst that could happen? He could break it off if it wasn’t what he wanted.

  


When he asked Nicole if she wanted to take their relationship to the next step in June, she kind of squealed and jumped on him. Her hair got in his mouth and that was kind of gross. But she was smiling really wide and her eyes were twinkling and Michael found himself laughing along with her. He picked her up and twirled her around, and then they went to his house and had the best sex Michael had ever had. 

  


Well, the best except for—

  


NO.

  


Okay, another one of his goals, if Michael was being honest, was to stop thinking about Ryan Lochte all the goddamn time. It was seriously getting ridiculous how much that boy was on his mind. It was like one moment he was thinking about his split times or what he and Nicole would do that weekend and then, all of a sudden, he was thinking of Ryan. Ryan and how he looked after he came, all flushed and red, grinning up at Michael with his stupid dimples and his stupid blue-green eyes.

  


And it wasn't just the sex either. Michael could deal if it was just the sex—that just meant that he was horny and needed to get some. But no. When he was at the coffeehouse, he wondered if Ryan would like the song that was playing. When he was out watching a movie, he wondered what Ryan would say about the actors. When he was kissing Nicole, he wondered what Ryan was doing at that moment—if he was kissing someone as well. 

  


Ryan Lochte was like a poison. He was there and then Michael couldn’t stop himself from wanting him, wanting to be with him. From kissing his lips, and undressing him, and watching as he came. He couldn’t stop himself from falling for him—which is what scared him the most. A part of him knew that if he let himself, he could fall hard. And he couldn’t allow that, not when everything he had become and accomplished was on the line.

  


So, yeah, stop thinking about Ryan Lochte. So far, he had only failed that goal about 33 times. Not bad, but, you know, room for improvement and all.

 

*

  


He told Ryan about Nicole one evening when he was down in Gainesville, drinking cheap bottles of wine and swinging their feet around in the pool. Ryan was laughing at something Michael had said, and Michael had felt something punch him straight in the gut. He looked at Ryan and he felt these things that he just couldn’t describe. They came out of nowhere and, before he knew it, Michael was blurting words out.

  


“Ryan, I can’t do this anymore.”

  


Ryan’s laugh died. The crinkles at the corner of his eyes melted away and his dimples disappeared. There was a minute of utter silence before Ryan spoke. “Do what? What are you talking about, Mike?”

  


Michael closed his eyes and tried not to see sunshine and tan skin and Ryan’s Olympic rings tattoo. “This. You and me. We can’t sleep together anymore, dude.”

  


Ryan didn’t say anything, just kind of stared at Michael like he had grown another head. “We’ve been doing this since Athens. What’s wrong?”

  


“Nothing’s wrong, everything’s fine. It’s just—Nicole—”

  


“Does she have a problem with us? I mean, if she does, you could probably dump her. I never liked her that much anyways--she always dresses so slutty I just--”

  


“Hey, asshole, that's still my girlfriend you're talking about.” Michael narrowed his eyes at Ryan and got up. He had never seen Ryan talk smack about anyone, really. Ryan was possibly the sweetest person you could ever meet. Everyone thought so, his friends, his family, Mike’s family, the fans, the commentator, everyone. So hearing Ryan make a jab at Nicole like that was a little out of the blue. “I never knew that you didn't like her. You said she was sweet when I asked.”

  


Ryan grumbled something to himself and just stared at the water in front of him. He didn’t meet Michael’s glare, didn’t look up when he stopped talking. His face was cold. Emotionless. “Yeah, well, why don’t you tell me what the problem is then? Girls never got in the way before.”

  


“Well, did you expect us to do this forever? Keep screwing for the rest of our lives and just keep random girls on the side?” Ryan stayed silent so Michael continued. “We said we’d do this until one of us found someone. Well I did. I like Nicole, I think she’s a sure bet, and—and I told her that I want us to be more. Be in a real, committed relationship. Exclusive.”

  


Ryan finally looked up at that. Green eyes met brown and Michael felt that something punch him in the gut again. Harder. It almost knocked him out. “What?” Ryan said it quietly, and if Michael hadn’t seen his lips move, he probably wouldn’t have even heard it.

  


“Yeah.” He looked down and kicked at Ryan’s pool deck. Well, it was out there—no way to take it back now. “I, you know, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to end like this but yeah. I’m going to try things for real with her and that means we can’t really do this anymore. Us. I’m sorry. Ry, you’re still my best friend, I hope this doesn’t change anything.”

  


Ryan picked at the grass at the edge of the pool. “Do you love her?”

  


“Yes.” Michael lied through his teeth. No, he didn’t. He hadn’t really been with Nicole long enough to know that. He ignored the voice at the back of his head that screamed that all the time in the world wouldn’t really make a difference. 

  


That night was awkward. Usually, when Michael came down to visit, they ended up having sex on Ryan’s couch and then falling asleep in his king-sized bed. And then he’d wake up in the mornings to the smell of pancakes and bacon, Carter slobbering all over the sheets. He would get up and help Ryan with the dishes and they would eat together, talking about music or cars or even occasionally swimming.

  


That night, Michael fell asleep in the guest room. He woke up to find Ryan already gone. He went to the kitchen to find a single note on the counter:

  


_Hey, sorry about last night. It’s great that you found Nicole—I really am happy for you. (: And uhm, help yourself, there’s like milk in the fridge and cereal on the counter somewhere. I had to go out for an early practice. See ya when I see you. Luv ya, man. Jeah!_

  


Michael’s stomach turned as he read the note. He knew Ryan didn’t have an early practice—he knew Ryan’s schedule almost as well as he knew his own. Which meant that Ryan didn’t want to be around when Michael woke up.

  


Michael quickly scribbled a note back and grabbed his bag. He left before he had a chance to change his mind.

 

*

 

They texted a few times after but then, suddenly, Ryan stopped texting back. He stopped taking his calls. It was more than unsettling—to be honest, it made Michael a little queasy. More than once, Michael thought of just hoping on a plane and just showing up on Ryan’s doorstep. You know, like he always used to do. To show Ryan that nothing really changed. They were still best friends, for god’s sake. 

  


But even as he thought it, Michael knew that wasn’t true. Things had changed. Conor and Matt and even Allison had warned him about this. You couldn’t just be in a sexual relationship with someone, break it off, and then expect everything to just go back to normal. It didn’t work that way. Someone got just a little bit more hurt. Someone just cared a little bit more.

  


When they had told him that, Michael had just waved them off. He and Ryan could handle it. Neither of them were particularly in touch with their feelings, and they certainly weren’t going to break down when it came time to call it quits. 

  


But now, Michael thought about what they had said and realized that, maybe, they had been right, at least a little bit anyways. Maybe the whole thing was a mistake. Maybe screwing had actually screwed up his friendship with Ryan—and that really, really sucked because Ryan was possibly the best friend anyone could ask for. And the fact that they were actually _best_ friends? That was pretty much a goddamn miracle.

  


But that seemed like it was over now, and Michael kind of wanted to die a little. He just really wanted Ryan back. No, not like that—just like, you know, as a friend. But every time he thought of buying a ticket and going down to Gainesville, something always stopped him. Cause, maybe, he should give Ryan some space. He owed him that much.

  


So the next time he saw Ryan, was smack in the middle of October—which really sucked because, even when he had been pissed at Ryan that one time Ryan had beat him, the longest they had gone without talking or hanging out was like a couple weeks. This was going on like 3 or 4 months. And yeah, that really, really, really sucked. Michael felt like he was going through Reezy withdrawals—which actually might been a real thing. Someone that knew Ryan could only go so long without seeing him and his natural sunshine and dimpled grin before going insane.

  


Michael figured he was at that point.

  


He walked into the bar with Nicole at his heels. To be honest, he was getting a little tired of her. She was actually a really loud person, once you got to know her, and it had started giving Michael a perpetual headache. And she wore too much make-up. Michael didn’t like having to kiss someone while worrying about their lipstick or whether or not he could touch their face or not. And she wanted to have sex like all the time. Which really, Michael would’ve been okay with, except that sex with Nicole wasn’t really all that great. I mean, it was sex, so it wasn’t terrible—and it’s not like Michael was a really picky person or anything. It was just that, more often than not, he found himself fingering himself when he was fucking her and kept imaging Ryan pressed up behind him when she was moaning and it was all just downhill from there.

  


It’s not that he didn’t try to love her—cause he did. There just wasn’t a lot to love. Not when there was someone else constantly on his mind.

  


All in all, that night was pretty freaking terrible. He talked to Ryan for maybe 5 minutes tops, before Ryan scurried away, to talk to Conor no less. And Michael wanted to kick himself because really. He had really screwed this up. He had screwed everything up. It took all of his willpower to not break down crying right there in the middle of the bar, with Nicole just a few meters off dancing and Ryan at the other end of the room doing God knows what.

  


All he could think of was how he was always happiest when he was with Ryan. Ryan and his stupid dimpled grin and his blue-green eyes and his god damn six-pack. Ryan when they were both under the covers, hot and sweaty—and even when they weren’t hot and sweaty. When they were just laying there, reading or playing on their iPhones or like complaining about their coaches. When neither of them really wanted to get up because it was too damn cold out and there was really nothing exciting to do out of bed anyways.

  


Michael left early that night. He wasn’t sure if Ryan noticed. He wasn’t even sure if Nicole noticed. He just murmured to her that he had to go, and slipped out. 

  


Before he left, he waved at Ryan. He didn’t wait to see if Ryan waved back.

 

*

 

Michael Phelps was in a really pissy mood. And that was really saying something, because anyone that knew Michael, knew that his natural state was a little dark and moody. That’s just the way he was. But that didn’t hold light to how he was now. He was constantly grumpy and upset and yelled at anyone that got in his way. It was annoying, and to be honest, Michael was surprised that anyone continued to put up with him, cause he sure as hell wouldn’t put up with anyone that acted the way he did.

  


A lot of people thought he was upset because of how he did in the 2010 Pan-pacs and how Lochte had actually beaten him at a major national meet. And yeah, he was pretty darn angry about that, but really, that was just a little thing. He still won like 5 gold medals and he probably got over that in a matter of weeks, to be honest. No, that whole thing didn’t bother him too much. There was still the next year, not to mention London, when he’d sure as hell dominate.

  


And some people thought it was cause of the rumors about Nicole cheating on him, but that was really even more ridiculous than the whole Pan-pac thing. Nicole wouldn’t cheat on the greatest swimmer of all time—she wasn’t stupid. And even if she had, Michael really couldn’t even bring himself to care. He half hoped that she had in fact cheated. Then, at least, he would have a legitimate reason to dump her, not to mention the sympathy of one Ryan Lochte. And everyone else too, of course.

  


Michael still tried not to think about Ryan. But, as the end of the year approached, it was getting harder and harder. It was November, and really, Michael had pretty much failed every major goal that he’d set for himself. 

  


So yeah, he was pissed.

  


Conor Dwyer and Ryan Lochte were flying up that weekend to the Baltimore area for some sponsorship stuff. They went through the same agency so they traveled a lot together. And where Michael used to be jealous of their close friendship, now he was kind of glad. He and Conor were tight. He knew for a fact that Conor would come visit if he was up near Michael’s area. And he hoped that Conor would drag Ryan along too. 

  


Conor had texted him that he’d be around that Sunday. When he rang the doorbell, Michael practically bolted from his seat in the living room. He crossed his fingers that a mop of curly hair and blue-green eyes would be standing beside Dwyer.

  


He was wrong.

  


“Hey man, sorry, it’s just me today.” Conor slid into Mike’s apartment, dropping a six-pack into his hands. “Reezy, you know, had a thing, so he couldn’t make it. But yeah, I still thought I would drop by.”

  


Michael tried not to look as dejected as he felt. He led Conor into the living room, where the gaming console was already set up. If Ryan had come, they all probably would’ve chatted first, but now. All he really wanted to do was play mindless video games and get through the night. He didn’t think he had it in him to make small talk and act like he was feeling okay. Cause he wasn’t. There was no part of this that was okay.

  


“Uhh, we could play HALO. Or Call of Duty. And I think I have some Zelda game or something in here. Or basketball, if you’re into that.” Michael realized, with a wave of guilt, that he didn’t really know what Conor liked to do. But then again, he hadn’t known him for that long, just for about a year and only through Ryan at that. Yet, Conor had still managed to show up when Ryan hadn’t. And Michael had known Ryan for years. “It’s like, you know, up to you.”

  


Conor had ended up picking the NBA Basketball game and Michael was only a little bit disappointed, cause he and Ryan always used to play HALO. They made fun of people that played anything else.

  


“So,” Michael started. Conor was creaming him, and he didn’t really even care. “How’s Ryan?” He didn’t mean to start with that—didn’t mean to sound so desperate for information—but he just really needed to know. And he didn’t so much care if Conor thought him a loser for it.

  


“Reezy? He’s fine. Kind of upset, but fine.” Michael could tell Conor hadn’t really been paying attention to the question. His eyes were locked on the screen, and he had his tongue sticking out in the way that some people did when they were concentrating on something. Ryan never did that. When he was concentrating on something, he’d crack his knuckles and squint his eyes. Michael didn’t know why he remembered that, but he did.

  


“Upset, why?” 

  


“Oh, his dog’s a bit sick. Vet’s kind of worried.”

  


Michael nodded. It was little things like that that Ryan used to call him about. His dog’s sick, his sister’s pestering him, his mom’s birthday’s coming up, his dad got promoted.

  


“Oh.”

  


They were silent for a while and Michael waited till the end of the game, before asking another question. “So does he like, does he ever talk about me or anything? Like not that it matters, I was just wondering.”

  


Conor stared at Michael for a while, as if he was studying him, measuring him up, before putting the console down and taking a swig of his beer. “No, he doesn’t.”

  


The words shouldn’t have hurt him, but they did. They punched him right in the throat and in the stomach and in the heart and everyone other place something could possibly punch him. Michael felt like the world stopped spinning just a little bit.

  


“He doesn’t talk about you, cause I’m pretty sure it just might kill him.”

  


Michael’s head shot up at that. What? _What?_

  


When Michael didn’t respond, Conor continued. “Seriously, you and Ryan are the most clueless bastards I have ever met in my entire life. Like, I don’t know even what to do with you anymore cause the whole thing is just so painfully obvious to everyone else in the world, but you two choose to just wander around blindly. Honestly, how is this not more obvious to you?” 

  


“What—what the hell are you talking about, Dwyer?”

  


Conor sighed and moved beside Michael. He put his arm around his shoulder like he had to Ryan all those months ago and faced him. “Ryan’s in love with you, you fucker. Has been all this time. He loves you.” He said the words slowly, like he's talking to a child.

  


Michael’s initial reaction was to laugh. Cause no, he knew Ryan. Ryan doesn’t do feelings—he’s friendly and sweet and nice, sure, but he doesn’t fall for people. Not now when they were ‘still in their prime’. No, Ryan hooks up with people for periods of time, and that's pretty much it. Mostly, he thought that feelings were a waste of time, and got in the way of a good thing. Like, how could you have fun when you had to look out for your significant other all the goddamn time? No, Ryan was a free bird. He didn’t get attached to anything, much less people.

  


“You’re high,” Michael muttered. He turned away and rubbed his eyes. It really wasn’t cool, saying all these things that weren’t true about Ryan. Not that Michael cared, but, you know, he kind of did. “Did Reezy tell you to say that? Or are you just making shit up for him? What, are you screwing him now too?”

  


“Hah—me and Reezy? You wish. Well actually, he wishes—and that is so not the point. Michael, I’m not joking. I don’t know why I would joke around about this—it’s not like I want to lead you or Ryan on or anything. Really, I couldn’t care less about this whole messed up game the two of you play, but Ryan’s hurting, dude. And I’m not fucking blind. I can see that you’re hurting too.”

  


“Yeah, well, you know what? You’re wrong, okay?” Michael didn’t know where this sudden anger came from. He just didn’t like people coming into his house and making up stuff about his friend and telling him how he should or should not be feeling. “Listen, it’s like 4 o’clock. You should probably leave. Go hang out with Ryan or whatever.”

  


“Michael—”

  


“Seriously.” And Michael’s tone probably could’ve cut glass. “Get the fuck out. We’re done talking about this.”

  


And he picked up what remained of Conor’s six-pack, shoved it in his hands, and pushed him out the door.

  


Before he had a chance to slam the door, Conor stuck his arm out and closed the gap. “Wait! Okay, Phelps, you be an asshole and don’t listen to me. But I’m not kidding here. Ryan really does have feelings for you. That’s why he hasn’t been talking to you. That’s why he’s been acting to weird. That’s why he’s been avoiding you. So like yeah, do whatever the fuck you want, but just know that everything I said was true. Ryan is in fucking pieces because of you and Nicole and this whole thing, and shit, I don’t like seeing him that way. So just, whatever you do, don’t be a douche to him now. At least let him get over the whole thing before you go and parade your whole relationship around—”

  


Michael scowled. “I don’t parade my relationship around—”

  


“You know what I mean. Just like be easy on him. And even if you don’t feel the same way towards him—which I’m sure you do—you just, play easy, alright Phelps? He’s not as tough as you. He can break easier than you can. You just remember that.”

  


And with that, Conor nodded his goodbye and spun around, leaping down the stairs in two’s. Michael watched him until he disappeared into a taxi and drove off.

 

* * *

 

There were five times in his life that Ryan Lochte felt like he’d been hit by a train.

  


The first time was when we was eight and he saw one of his friends in the pool and he was pretty damn sure she was drowning or something. He yelled and screamed for help and one of the lifeguards nearby hopped in and saved her. The second time was probably when he was about 15 and he came home from practice one day to find his parents sobbing and crying because Megan had been in a car crash earlier that day and the doctors weren’t sure if she’d make it or not. Because head injuries were hard, hard stuff and even the brightest surgeons in the world couldn’t fix a brain that was too far gone. It turned out that Megan was fine, but that pretty much scared the living daylights out of him. The third time was when Ryan was 19 and he just made it past the Olympic Trials and it hit him that he was actually going to be a fucking Olympian. That all his hard work had paid off, in a sense, and that he’d actually be swimming in the most respected sporting event in all of history. And that one, yeah, actually hit him like a fucking train and he had to like sit in his room for a goddamn hour alone, just grinning, to wrap his head around the whole damn thing.

  


The fourth time was that morning when Conor Dwyer had dropped the bomb that, yeah, Ryan might actually be in love with Michael fucking 8-time gold medalist, Olympic Star, Phelps. And that was a train wreck that was hard to recover from because like the whole damn thing just kept going, and it was like he was just there. Stuck under the tracks or some shit. And he couldn’t get out. Cause, yeah, he was in love with that fucking asshole, and that just made life fucking shitty for the time being.

  


And the fifth time was that November morning, when Ryan opened his door to find Michael on his doorstep, carry-on in hand and a backpack on his back.

  


He looked good. Well, not great. It seemed like he had circles under his eyes, and his pornstache was a little overgrown so that he kind of looked like a gorilla or something. But his eyes were brown and dark and deep and Ryan remembered why he could just get lost in them for hours. And his shirt stuck to his skin in just the right places that Ryan could see just how great his body was. Not that he didn’t already know.

  


But of course, Ryan didn’t pay much attention to any of that because what. Michael Phelps was at his door, fresh off the airplane, hair all messy under his snapback and Ryan didn’t have a clue what to say to him.

  


“What—Michael?” Ryan swallowed a few times. “Dude, what the fuck are you doing here?”

  


“I broke up with her.”

  


“What? What are you talking about?”

  


“Nicole. I dumped her.”

  


Ryan felt the world stop spinning. He gripped the door frame to keep from like falling or some shit. And really, he should’ve been able to put the pieces together right there right then. Michael dumped Nicole and showed up the next possible moment at his doorstep, luggage in hand. Really, he should’ve been able to figure out everything that could possibly mean, except that Ryan felt a little dizzy and he couldn’t really comprehend much of what Michael was saying, much less throw pieces together and make inferences and stuff.

  


“Uh, what?” He stepped aside, and let Michael come inside. His place wasn’t too big, but it was quaint. And really it’s not like Ryan needed a mansion or anything—he just really needed a small place he could like crash and play video games in between his training sessions. Michael tossed his bag to the side and turned and faced Ryan, his dark eyes boring holes into him. “Why?”

  


“Why? Because—because it just wasn’t working out, you know? I realized that I didn’t really see a future with her and all. She wasn’t it for me, so why waste anymore time, yeah?”

  


Ryan nodded and walked into the kitchen. He needed coffee before he could think all this shit through. Michael tailed him and sat at his dining table.

  


“Okay, so why are you here? I mean, it’s great that you’re visiting and all, cause, really, we haven’t hung out in like months. But like. You could’ve called, you know.”

  


Michael didn’t say anything to that, just kind of stared at Ryan with this really weird look on his face. He bit his lip and squirmed in his seat, like he wanted to say something but didn’t really know the words to say it.

  


“Just like—” Michael finally began, picking at a coaster on the table and refusing to make eye contact. “I don’t know, it’s just been so weird, you know? The past few months. Without you. Like, I hated it. I didn’t realize how important you had been in my life until suddenly you weren’t there anymore and I just—I really fucking hated it Ry. So I’m here cause I missed you, and I want to hang out with you again, and I don’t want it to be weird between us anymore cause that was just terrible. And then Conor—I just did some thinking and I realized what I really want, and it’s not some dumb bimbo model or anything. Its—I just hopped on the next flight down to Gainesville because I just really wanted to see you. Cause it’s been forever. And yeah, I missed you and this stupid place and like hanging out and just being with you, you know?”

  


And Ryan didn’t know what to say to any of that. Because, really, it was pretty much the closest someone could get to a declaration of love without actually saying ‘I love you’ and that just wasn’t right, right? I mean, this was the Michael Phelps. And let’s face it, the guy was kind of an asshole. Like sure, he was nice and sweet to the people he cared about, but the guy was kind of insensitive and didn’t really do emotions. Or real feelings. Or relationships. Or anything. So like, what? What the fuck was Michael getting at? Did he want to like, start up their friends-with-benefit arrangement again? If so, why didn’t he just say it? They were pretty open about that kind of stuff, right?

  


“Uhm well,” Ryan shifted uncomfortably where he stood, cause Michael just kept staring at him with this look that he still didn’t understand and that was kind of unsettling. “I missed you too, dude. Really. It really hasn’t been the same without my MPeezy, you know?” Ryan looked down and kicked at the kitchen tiles.

  


In that moment, a voice shouted out from the hallway outside the kitchen, and Ryan cringed. Probably visibly. Okay, he wasn’t a fucking angel and this whole feelings-for-his-dolphin-best-friend wasn’t going fantastic, so maybe Ryan might’ve been hooking up a lot for the past few months. And maybe a lot of the times, it was with guys. And maybe, a lot of the times, the guys just so happened to look a lot like Michael Phelps. But really, Ryan couldn’t really be blamed for that. What else was he supposed to do? Just sit on the sidelines and watch Michael and his perfect relationship with Nicole and just suffer in silence? Cause no. That whole thing fucking hurt. The whole thing killed him all the damn time and he couldn’t just sit there and watch. So yeah, maybe Lochte did throw himself at a lot of people.

  


And yeah, maybe one of those people just so happened to be in his kitchen right now, hugging him from behind and whispering how great last night had been. 

  


Ryan felt the man (Dylan, was it? Or Derek. Or maybe it was Paul, or something, he honestly didn’t have a clue) tighten his grip around his waist and pull him closer, sticking his tongue in his ear, and Ryan kind of wanted to throw up just a little. Because Michael was there, sitting at his kitchen table, watching the two of them and just growing paler and paler by the second. And maybe the man didn’t notice or maybe he just didn’t care that there was another person in Ryan’s kitchen, cause he kept touching Ryan in inappropriate places and grinding into him, and Ryan really just wanted to die, right there on his kitchen floor.

  


Ryan shifted and handed the man a bagel, hurrying him towards the front door.

  


“Hey, Ryan, lets do this again sometime, yeah?” The man leaned on his doorway and winked at him.

  


“Uh, yeah, sure whatever.” And he slammed the door in his face. And okay, that was probably a little rude, but that was really the absolute last thing on his mind.

  


Ryan took a deep breath in the hallway before going back into the room. Michael was still at the kitchen table. His head was down and he was staring at the table harder than Ryan had ever seen anyone stare at anything. 

  


“So, who was he?” Michael finally muttered, and Ryan thought he heard something break in his voice.

  


“No one. Just like, a hook-up or something. It was just a one time thing.” And it was funny. It wasn’t like he owed Mike an explanation or anything but a part of him felt like he did. “Really, I just met him last night and that’s it. He’s not coming back.”

  


“I just—I don’t like the thought of you with anyone else.”

  


There it was. No way to explain himself out of that one. How else could Ryan take that except that maybe Michael Phelps actually felt something that like resembled real feelings for him? Ryan swallowed. Now or never, he guessed. “I don’t like the thought of you with anyone else either.”

  


And before he knew it, Michael was there, pressed up against him. He was kissing him and pushing him against a wall and grinding against him. He had his hands in Ryan’s hair and his lips practically everywhere on Ryan that they could possibly touch—his lips, his neck, everywhere. And for the first time all year, Ryan finally felt full. Like something that he’d been missing was finally there again. 

  


He let his hands roam, under Mike’s shirt, on his belt buckle, and even lower until he heard the moans drop from his mouth. 

  


Mike pulled away and there was a smile on his face like no other. In fact, Ryan didn’t remember seeing that smile for a good year, or at least since that summer. It was big and open, and the skin around his eyes crinkled into these adorable lines that Ryan had always loved. And Ryan couldn’t help it. He smiled too, probably just as big and just as open. He reached up and touched the skin around Mike’s eyes and felt him lean forward and suck on his neck, probably hard enough to leave bruises.

  


“Hey! No marks!” Ryan scowled. Wow, leave it to Phelps. No matter how many times he had told him not to, Michael still made it a point to leave scars all over his body.

  


Michael laughed, pushing Ryan harder against the wall. “I missed you,” he breathed over Ryan’s lips, staring at them. “Really.”

  


Ryan licked his lips, and it was the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders. “Me too.”

  


“So what is this then? We didn’t make an agreement this time.”

  


“I don’t know. But I like you. More than that. And I want you. Not just like for sex or whatever, but like the whole package. Everything.” And for a moment, he thought that maybe he had said too much, cause Michael hadn’t said anything about a relationship or anything. For all he knew, he just wanted some Reezy action again.

  


But then Michael smiled his big, open smile and kissed him harder than he had ever been kissed before and Ryan just knew. That Mike wanted this too. Wanted them. 

  


“So—” Ryan prompted, when Michael pulled away. Cause okay, it had been a fucking long time and he wanted to hear it from Michael himself. 

  


“So, I want you too. I guess I’ve wanted you for a while now, but, I don’t know. I don’t know what comes over me sometimes. It’s like I know what I want but I try to trick myself into thinking that I don’t want it and I just—” He broke off when he saw Ryan smirking at him. “I like you too. Liked you like that for a while now. And I just can’t stop thinking about you, man. Like even when I was with Nicole—”

  


“Don’t say her name.”

  


“Sorry.” Michael ran a hand through Ryan’s curls. “It’s you, man. It’s always been you. I was just too stupid to see it before.”

Ryan grinned. “We were both stupid.”

  


“Yeah.”

  


And they both grinned cause, really, the whole thing had just been so fucking stupid. 

  


Ryan hooked a finger around a loop of Michael’s jeans and pulled him impossibly closer. He leaned forward and sucked on the spot behind Mike’s ear that he knew drove Phelps crazy. “Well, better make up for lost time then, huh?”

  


Michael looked down at him and his eyes were darker than Ryan remembered ever seeing before. He watched as Michael swallowed and felt the grip on his hip tighten. “I’d like that.”

  


“Jeah, me too.”

  


Michael pushed him all the way back to his room, kissing him breathless and touching every part of his body that he could. By the time they were in Ryan’s room, both their shirts were on the ground somewhere in the hallway and Michael was already fumbling with the buckle on Ryan’s jeans. 

  


“God damn, these fucking hooks, why the hell do you wear these stupid pants?” Mike’s voice was heavy and Ryan had to keep from smiling. Mike always threw a fucking fit about his fucking jeans—just cause they were like high quality and therefore were a little harder to get off. But whatever, he wasn’t sacrificing his fashion sense for like a few seconds of extra work for a horny Michael Phelps.

  


“Hey, man, fashion comes with a price.” And Ryan did laugh at the dirty look Michael threw at him. But he just as quickly forgot what the hell was funny when Michael palmed him through his briefs. Ryan moaned, clinging to Michael as if he was holding on for dear life. He had almost forgotten this. How good Michael made him feel. How he made him feel like nothing in the entire world existed.

  


It didn’t take much for him to remember. A few tugs and hot kisses, and Ryan remembered all those nights from what seemed like forever ago, when the two of them used to spend all night fucking and Ryan had to show up to practice on literally like a half an hour of sleep and had to listen to Gregg yell at him for slacking during practice or whatever. But they were so worth it. Those nights were the best. Screw a few extra sore muscles and a few extra pissy coaches. He wouldn’t have given those nights up for the world.

  


And the fact that he might have those nights now for the rest of the year and the next year and the year after that? Well, that just might’ve been the best news in the entire world. 

  


Ryan moaned and squirmed and felt himself grow impossibly harder as Michael’s strokes grew faster and more insistent. 

  


“Dude, come on, just.” He lifted his hips up, gesturing at the cloth, and let Michael slip his briefs off. Ryan watched with a smirk as Phelps fumbled with his own jeans, before crashing down on top of him, lips meeting his midway. Michael fingers were tangled up in curls and his breath came hot and heavy on Ryan’s cheek, and Ryan just felt himself sink onto the sheets like this was just how it was supposed to be. Like all the time. Michael Phelps should just always be naked and hard and laying on top of him.

  


Michael was slowly rolling his hips, his dick pressed up against Ryan’s stomach, and he was letting out little moans that went straight to Ryan’s dick and made his stomach churn. “You’re so fucking hot.” Michael murmured in his ear, and Ryan let out a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a whimper or something. “Tell me what you want.”

  


And Ryan was a little surprised at that, cause Michael had never really asked him before. Not that Ryan just always did what Michael wanted (cause like no, he wasn’t a fucking pushover and it was only Michael anyways)—they just kind of went with it and that had always worked. And going with it usually meant that Ryan bottomed and Michael repaid him with a shit ton of blowjobs. And that was always fucking awesome.

  


But now, Michael was looking up with his dark, dark, dark brown eyes and Ryan knew that things were different. This wasn’t just a hook-up—this was something real. Michael asking was real. Michael looking at him like that was real. 

  


“Fuck me.” Ryan spoke against Michael’s lips, and Michael threw him a shit-eating grin before flipping him on his back and reaching for the drawer where he already knew the lube and condoms were stashed.

  


If anyone asked him about that night later, Ryan probably wouldn’t be able to tell them shit. Cause Ryan was pretty sure that he like blacked out for a good portion of the whole thing. All he really knew was Michael fucking Phelps—the hottest motherfucking man Ryan had ever set eyes on—was pressed up behind him, moaning soft curse words into his ear and pounding into him, hard and deep and really it took everything in Ryan not to scream. He saw stars, exploding behind his eyes, and he bit the pillow to keep the sounds down to a minimum (cause his neighbors were a bunch of old farts and like his walls were pretty thin and stuff). Michael pressed his lips all over Ryan’s back as he thrust and, then, came up and smashed them against Ryan’s own.

  


“Fuck, dude I’m gonna—” Ryan spoke through his teeth when he felt the pressure build. He could tell from the way that Michael was tensing up that he was close too—cause really the two of them had been doing this for so long that Ryan pretty much knew Michael’s body better than he knew his own.

  


Michael nodded against his shoulder and reached over to grab his dick, pumping in hard and fast. Ryan shut his eyes and clutched the sheets so tightly that he was sure they’d be like permanently stretched or something. When he was almost there, he heard Michael say it.

  


“I fucking love you, Ry.”

  


And that was it. That pushed him over, and Ryan came, seeing blinding white light and feeling his orgasm crash over him like a fucking tidal wave. Mike came not long after, letting out a strangled little cry, before collapsing right beside Ryan, panting and moaning, but still smiling out of the corner of his mouth. 

  


Ryan turned to Michael and traced circles on his abs, and tried not to let his grin get too fucking enormous—cause like people said all sort of shit when they were climaxing. Ryan had sure said a whole bunch of things he didn’t mean before when he was getting some, and like he wanted to make sure that he wasn’t getting all giddy for no reason.

  


“Uhm, do you?”

  


“Do I what?” Michael nuzzled his nose in Ryan neck, and Ryan’s hand instinctively went to Mike’s short brown hair.

  


“Love me? I mean, you said it when you were like coming, and I don’t know, I guess I get it if that was just like whatever—”

  


For one terrifying moment, Ryan thought that maybe he had in fact heard wrong. Or that Michael really hadn’t meant it. Cause Phelps was looking up at him with raised eyebrows and like—fuck—maybe Ryan had just been stupid for making assumptions and drawing conclusions and shit. But then, Michael was on top of him, kissing him deep and hungry and when he pulled back he was grinning his big shit-eating grin, and Ryan remembered how to breathe again.

  


“Yeah. I do. Think I always have. I don’t know what it is, Doggy.” Michael twisted one of Ryan’s curls in his fingers and Ryan reached up to grab Mike’s ear, grinning so fucking wide that his face sort of hurt. But you know, it was kind of worth it. “You just make things more right than anyone else ever has. And like you’re so fucking ridiculous and you do some of the craziest shit I’ve ever seen, but somehow I just can’t stop thinking about you. And I just want to be with you all the goddamn time even when I like just saw you and like. Fuck. I do love you, and I’m such a fucking idiot for trying to convince myself otherwise. Cause the way I feel about you, it’s not like—it’s not like fake, you know? I see you and I want to be the one that you kiss and you touch and you take home and like, so yeah. I do love you, Ry. And I fucking hope that you do too, cause this whole year has just been fucking terrible and I don’t think I could do another one without you.” 

  


“Jeah.”

  


“Jeah?”

  


“Jeah, I fucking love you too, you asshole”

  


And the grin that lit up Michael’s face probably could’ve lit up the sky or something. 

  


“So like,” Michael played with Ryan’s hands, and bit down on his lip. “I kind of want us to be like boyfriends. And I want to like date you. And fuck you. And I don’t want us to fuck anyone else. Sound cool?”

  


Ryan didn’t know what he did first, nod or kiss Michael. Cause really, that was all he wanted. Probably all he had ever wanted ever since he had seen the awkward, sorta goofy-looking Michael Phelps step off the bus in Trials in ’04. And, Ryan figured, that he might actually want it for the rest of his life. If, you know, Michael wanted it too.

  


And it kind of seemed like he did.

  


Which pretty much made Ryan the happiest motherfucker in the entire goddamn universe.

 

* * *

 

They go to Vegas again for that New Year. Michael isn’t really sure why, cause the last time, he had been with Nicole and he isn’t really sure why Ryan would want to go to the place that, from what Ryan had told him, apparently has a lot of bad memories for him. But they go, with Conor and Cullen and Matt and who ever else wants to join.

  


The whole trip there Conor hoots and howls because he had ‘so called it’ a whole year ago. It’s about Ryan and Michael and the two of them eventually switch seats with some of the other swimmers because it is really a damn earful and Michael just wants to sleep and Ryan is still a bit pissed (but not really that much) that Conor had told Michael about his feelings without letting him know first. 

  


They were out but they weren’t really out. Conor knew and Cullen knew and Allison knew, and he supposed that anyone who was anyone in the swimming world probably knew cause the way they acted around each other wasn’t like subtle or anything. Their families knew and some other close friends that weren’t in the swimming world knew.

  


It wasn’t like they acted a whole lot different. They still hung out with the same people and they still gave each other the same looks that Conor had been talking about and they still trained and swam and did everything that Olympians did. Michael still played a shit ton of poker and spent too much time golfing, and Ryan still did the crazy ass things he always did. But now, they both seemed like lighter. Like everything that had been piling on top of them was suddenly gone, and now, it was just them. Plain and simple.

  


Ryan still skateboarded off ramps, but now, Michael was always there to clean up the bruises. Michael still got moody as fuck when he lost, but now, Ryan was there to calm him down and remind him what was really important. They both still went out drinking, but now, they always went home with each other, and really Michael didn’t think that he’d want it any other way. 

  


So things really hadn’t changed, but Michael supposed that they still had. Probably in the best way possible. Ryan still flew up to Baltimore and Michael still came down to Gainesville, and they still fucked like they always had, but now, when they came, it was always accompanied by whispers of ‘I love you’. And maybe that was corny as hell, but it made Michael feel like a million dollars, which really made the whole thing worth it. 

  


Really, Michael found that he just couldn’t get tired of Ryan. And it shocked him again and again how he hadn’t figured out earlier that this thing with Ryan had been real before. Cause when he looked at Ryan’s blue-green eyes when he was jumping around and acting like a real fucking idiot, it always hit him that Ryan was _his_ fucking idiot and that just made him so happy that Michael felt like he could just smile for days. And Ryan’s sunshine grin just made Michael feel like he wanted to keep Ryan smiling like that for the rest of his life. Really, he never wanted to see it fade, like ever.

  


So yeah, they were together. And even though they had only been officially together for like a month, it felt like it had been years and years. And maybe it had been. Maybe they had really been together ever since 2004—and they just then realized it.

  


On the 31st, Michael gets ready in his tux and red tie. And yeah, maybe it’s a little too formal and classy for Hooters, but whatever he just really wants to look all snazzy for Ryan Lochte, who had better appreciate his attempt at fashion or whatever. At 10, Ryan still isn’t ready and Michael is getting just a bit impatient, especially when he gets his 6th text from Conor asking where the fuck the two of them are and to get his dick out of Ryan’s ass and come downstairs already. Michael frowns at his phone and knocks on the bathroom door.

  


“Oi! Reezy! You done yet, man?”

  


“Calm yourself, MP, fashion takes time.” Ryan calls back, and Michael has to fight the urge to roll his eyes.

  


He is out a few seconds later, wearing nothing but bright red briefs and a bow around his neck. 

  


“What the—Jesus, Ryan what the actual fuck are you wearing? You’re not thinking of going downstairs like that are you?” Cause Ryan would do that. And well, Michael doesn’t want to think of all the guys and girls that would be so on that. Not to mention the fact that his boyfriend would probably freeze to death or something.

  


Ryan grins and inches up to Michael, tugging on his tie and pinning him against the foot of the bed. He mouths at his neck and runs his hands along Mike’s arms. “I was thinking, that maybe we spend the night in. You know, in this room.”

  


Michael frowns slightly. Cause they could’ve easily done this in Baltimore or Gainesville or something. “You sure? You don’t want to go down and party and stuff?”

  


Ryan bites his lip and shakes his head. “I thought I did. But not as much as I want to fuck you when the ball drops.” Michael looks down at squinty eyes and feels his stomach flip. “Plus look at our fucking view man. See right there?” Ryan points at one of the other hotels. “That’s where they light up the fireworks. We’d have the best view in the entire world. And,” Ryan murmurs, as he places light kisses on Michael’s lips. “We wouldn’t have to leave our bed.” 

  


Ryan bites his lip again and waits for Michael to respond. Michael does, by kissing him hard and hungry. Speaking of… “Dude, we haven’t eaten yet.”

  


“So? We’ll order in.” And Ryan pushes him back onto the bed, and Michael really doesn’t have an argument in mind against that so he just lets it go and kisses Ryan back.

  


So that’s how they ring in 2011. Michael turns his phone off, cause Conor has resorted to calling and just won’t fucking leave the two of them alone, and orders food and champagne to the room. He takes off his fancy suit and climbs on top of Ryan. By the time 11:50 comes around, they’ve eaten all the food and fucked on every possible surface in the room. At 11:55, Michael opens the bottle of champagne and presses Ryan up against the window, fucking him slowly from behind and biting on his neck. Ryan is a moaning mess under him and even forgets to complain about marks or whatever. Michael whispers pledges of love quietly in Ryan’s ear and hopes and prays that no one from the street can see the two of them, although they are so far up that the chances of that are pretty much slim to none. 

  


At 11:59, Ryan comes, with Michael not far behind him, and they spend the last few seconds of 2010 with their foreheads pressed together, leaning against the window and counting down under their breath—because they’re too damn tired to raise their voices to a normal level. When the screen in the middle of the street hits 0, they kiss long and hard.

  


Ryan looks up at Michael and sees scruffy brown hair and a crooked grin that he can just never get tired of. Michael wraps his arms around his waist, and places his chin on Ryan’s shoulders so that they can both watch the fireworks explode. 

  


Ryan hears Michael whisper ‘I love you’. He says it back and remembers thinking that, maybe, 2010 hadn’t been so bad after all.


End file.
